Those Things You Tell Yourself
by RCB
Summary: A second person POV into a possible apocalyptic future. Dean/OFC, Anti-Christ Sam, and convoluted Christianity my speculation . Spoilers through 4.08 and a more detailed header is located at the top of the story.


Title: Those Things You Tell Yourself  
Rating: PG, some violence because it's Armageddon.  
Word Count: 3,262  
Characters: Dean/OFC, Anti-Christ!Sam, OMC  
Spoilers/Warnings: Through 4.08, beyond that is my speculation. Convoluted Christianity, again, my speculation.  
Summary: A second person POV in a possible future.

A/N: Many thanks to just_ruth at LiveJournal for the quick beta, discussion, and helpful suggestions. Remaining mistakes are all my own. Cross posted.

A/N#2: I originally posted this to my livejournal on 11/12/08 but as I mentioned on my profile, I'm moving fics over here slowly as a bit of a back up.

**Those Things You Tell Yourself**

When you meet him for the first time, you tell yourself that you should probably walk away. His entire self loathing attitude screams, "loser", "failure", and who are you to argue with him? He's just a stranger sitting alone at the bar, hunched over a glass of whiskey, and he clearly wants to be alone.

But then, you find yourself over there anyway, and before you know it; you're back at your place, and you can't remember where he dropped your skirt on the way to the bedroom, but suddenly, you don't really care about such a mundane detail.

The faint mark on his shoulder tells you that maybe he's into a kinkier side of life than what you're really ready for. But he chases those worries away with kisses, and little noises that say he needs this; he needs this badly. You wonder why; because even though he's got some baggage, he's easy on the eyes, and he can't be hurting for company.

You push all those thoughts away, because he just found that one spot that…

In the morning, when he's gone, you're not all that surprised.

When he comes back that afternoon, and asks with pleading eyes if he can come in, just for some coffee, well, that surprises you.

________________________________________________________________________

Sometimes he has nightmares, and you tell yourself that you _knew_ he was carrying around a well of hurt that probably didn't have a bottom to it, and you should probably get out while you can.

But then he wakes up, drenched in sweat and he _clings_ to you, and you suddenly can't imagine leaving him alone.

________________________________________________________________________

He has odd habits, and sometimes has to leave for work for days at a time. You tell yourself that you don't mind, that you don't miss him, that this is just a "thing". Some short fling, and it's not supposed to last.

But then he comes back, after one of those work related trips, and his arms are wrapped around you, and even though he's holding onto you; it feels like you're actually holding on to him, and you're not sure how that makes you feel.

Suddenly, your concern for his weird behavior around churches, and his obsession with keeping you away from the trunk of his car, falls to the wayside.

That's pretty much when you realize that you're screwed.

________________________________________________________________________

You tell yourself that the test is wrong. The mantra bounces in your head all the way to the doctor's office, and you've gotten yourself fairly convinced of it by the time you get there.

You're a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them, and you took six home pregnancy tests. You really shouldn't be all that surprised, when the doctor comes in, and tells you and Dean that the tests were right.

He seems stunned, but he keeps his composure inside the doctor's office and asks all the right questions. They're the questions that you should be asking the doctor, but you can't, because you can't think past those words, "Congratulations, you're pregnant."

Outside, sitting in his car, he says, "We always used something."

You can't really say anything back, because it's true; so you just nod.

"You said," he continues, with an expression that looks accusing, "that you couldn't get pregnant."

"That's what that quack in there said. Rob and I tried for five years and nothing. They said it was me, not Rob. Faulty ovaries," It hurts to say it out loud, that you're a failure as a woman. "That's why he left me, he wanted a baby of his own; he didn't want to adopt," you explain with as steady a voice as you can manage, because you're not a liar, and if he wants to see it, you still have the official diagnosis typed up, all formal like.

You have it because you tried to find someone who could _fix_ you, so that Rob wouldn't leave.

Besides, Dean was the one in charge of the stupid condom, so the glare you're giving him is well deserved.

He stares at you for a long time, and you're about to offer up that paper as evidence, when he finally speaks again. "You prayed."

"What?" you ask, because that's the last thing you expected him to say. God, you learned right off, was not a topic to discuss around him.

"You prayed, back then," he states, and it's not a question.

"Constantly," you admit, and he looks bitter for a second.

He gives one of his dry, humorless laughs, "We used a condom, and you have 'faulty ovaries', but you're pregnant." He runs a hand through his hair, sits back in the seat, eyes closed, but face turned towards heaven.

Like you need reminding. You put that notion aside a long time ago. The daydreams, hopes, and wishes of having children. You had a husband then, back when you prayed to God, and now you don't. Right now, you've got a guy with more issues than Time magazine.

You realize, in a sudden flash of understanding, that he had stuck around because he was glad that you couldn't get pregnant. It's ironic to you that one man left you because of your inability to have children, and another man was going to leave you because you can.

You start to get out of the car because it feels like you can't breathe, and maybe air will help. Outside air. Air that doesn't smell like leather, car exhaust, and gasoline.

He grabs your arm to stop you, tells you he's sorry, that he's being an idiot, and you try to pull your arm free, because you still can't _breathe_.

You realize that you're crying when he takes his thumbs and wipes the tears away. He kisses you, whispers apologies, and promises, and you ignore the tiny voice in the back of your head that says to get out of the car, walk away and never look back. He can't love you; he can't even love himself.

You look up, and over Dean's shoulder you see two men across the street, standing on the sidewalk, and watching your front seat drama. They're just staring, and it's the unblinking, _impassiveness_ of their faces, that cause you to shiver despite yourself. Dean looks to see who has your attention, and you glance at him to ask if he maybe knows them.

When you look back at them again, they're gone, and Dean gives you a questioning look. It doesn't matter who they were, they're gone now, and so you suck it up and do what needs to be done.

"We didn't plan this. So-" You start to let him off the hook, but he stops you.

"Do you love me, or not?" he asks, and the abrupt tone of his voice causes you to lose most of your higher brain function.

"It's a simple question." he says while you are doing a fair impression of a fish out of water.

"Not when we're talking about you," you blurt out, and immediately wish you could take it back.

Instead of looking hurt, he looks like he agrees with you, and that makes you feel even worse. Since the day you've met him, you knew that under the rough exterior he was hiding, albeit poorly, a self hatred that defies understanding.

"I do. Love you," you confess then, "I tried not to, but it happened anyway."

"Then," he says as his wrist turns the key in the ignition, "we'll figure it out as we go along."

The car rumbles to life and he looks you right in the eye, "I'm not like _them_. I don't _leave_, so don't ever worry about that? Okay?"

You nod, and for some reason he looks relieved. "Promise me one thing," he says quietly and you can barely hear him over the engine noise. "Don't ever pray again."

While that is probably the oddest thing he's ever asked for, way above not sweeping away the salt he puts in front of the doorways, or the weird ass tattoo he asked you to get to match his; you find yourself nodding, and you tell yourself to think positive.

You're a mother now.

________________________________________________________________________

He wasn't kidding about not leaving. He doesn't ever leave for more than a few hours, and even then he calls constantly to see if you're okay. You tell yourself that it's just new parent jitters; he'll settle down eventually.

You quickly realize that being pregnant isn't all clothes shopping, crib buying, and name picking. You throw up nearly twenty four hours a day, you develop something called gestational diabetes, and you're so tired sometimes: an aching, deep kind of tired that feels like it's worked its way into your very bones, and those are the worst days.

On those days, he stays home, and climbs into bed with you. On those days, you tell yourself that you don't care if he doesn't want to talk about his family. He says he loves you, and you listen to him talk about places he's been; he describes cities and towns to you until you fall asleep. Sometimes you wake up to see that he's fallen asleep too, and you watch. Most people look peaceful when they sleep, but not him.

He looks tortured.

________________________________________________________________________

"I'm sorry," he says, sitting next to your hospital bed, tears in his eyes.

"It's not your fault," you say, confused.

"It is. It all is."

"Dean, the baby is going to be fine," you reassure him. The doctor just came in and said that, wasn't he paying attention? Just a little spotting, a few false contractions, nothing to be alarmed about. Bed rest was the best medicine.

"He is now," he says as he lays his head on your belly, and the baby kicks at him hard, as if to prove your point. "But none of us are going to be, not even him."

"What are you talking about?" you ask, but really, you're pretty sure that don't want to know.

"I couldn't do it. In the end, I couldn't do it," he answers, face turned away from you, and talking in that broken voice he uses sometimes when he wakes up from a nightmare.

You decide that there's no time like the present. You ask the question you've been dying to ask since the very first night you slept in the same bed.

"Who's Sam?"

His body goes rigid, and he doesn't move a muscle or answer. You wait, because you want to know, you need to know, and god damn it, you're having his baby and you have the right to know _something_ about him.

"I'm not sure any more."

You tell yourself that you're imagining the fear in his voice.

________________________________________________________________________

One day, three weeks before your due date, you have a dream.

"The Lord is with you Miriam. Don't be afraid."

That's all, just a voice, and then you wake up to see that Dean is watching you sleep.

"That's creepy," you inform him immediately, and he smiles.

That's not something you see too often, and you're about to try and think up something else to say to keep him smiling, when you smell the whiskey on his breath.

"Lucifer is out. We screwed up," he says, with a bit of a drunken slur. "It's Armageddon, and no one even knows yet."

"Lucifer. Like the Devil?" you ask confused, because God is totally off the books as far as conversation, but he gets drunk and wants to talk about the Devil?

"Mmhmm," he says, snuggling in close, and rubbing your stomach. Every time he touches you, the baby kicks, and you always marvel at that.

"You sound like one of those guys that stand over on Franklin Street, holding up a sign that says, 'The End Is Nigh'," you tell him, not really in the mood to have a theological conversation with someone who's drunk.

"No, they say it's coming, and I'm telling you it already happened," he corrects you with his eyes closed.

"Armageddon. Already happened," you repeat, "Dean, get some sleep."

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, close to passing out. "I should have told you sooner."

"That's okay. Just get some sleep," you encourage him, and his breathing evens out, telling you that he finally passed out.

You try to slip out of bed, but you're as big as a damn house, and you quit being able to slip out of anything three months ago. Luckily, he's drunk, so he sleeps through your ungraceful exit.

You go out into the living room, turn on the television, and watch CNN. After an hour, you tell yourself that, yeah, things are bad, but it's not the end of the world.

So, why are you crying?

________________________________________________________________________

They say it's terrorists.

Somehow, terrorists have invaded American soil in such numbers, that they can eradicate entire towns; the whole municipality in flames and every single inhabitant dead.

They expect you to believe that.

The first one to go is Lawrence, Kansas, and you watch the news coverage live on television. Dean was gone, but he comes in about five minutes into the broadcast, a cell phone in his hand, and shouting at you to pack a suitcase.

You're packing as fast as you can, and wondering what the hell is happening.

So, you ask him.

"Hell is exactly what's happening, Miriam," he says in such a way that you believe him.

You try to stay calm and pack only what you need, what the baby will need. Your hands are shaking, and he's grabbing things and carrying them out into the Impala. You notice that he's not packing anything, just carrying.

He's been expecting this.

"We'll keep moving," he says when he comes inside, and takes your shaking hands into his own. "We'll stay on the road, and he won't find us."

You try to tell yourself that it'll be okay, but of all the things you've convinced yourself of so far, this one is too hard to swallow.  
________________________________________________________________________

Even though the world seems to be burning alive, it's cold where you are now. Dean moved you as northwest as he could, without having to cross the border, and you don't even ask why he can't get past border patrol.

Because it doesn't matter. You're in labor on the side of the road, and you've never been more scared in your life.

"Breathe," he reminds you, and you punch him as hard as you can. "Ow," he complains, so you hit him again, because if he thought a punch from you hurt, then he has no idea how…

It feels like your insides are turning themselves inside out, and you never knew the definition of pain until now.

"I need to change the tire Miriam. Then I can get you to a hospital. You just have to hang on a few minutes."

"Don't leave," you beg. All this time he never left you, and _now_ he wants to leave? Okay, maybe you're not being rational, but you've got something comparable to a Butterball Turkey trying to squeeze down your birth canal. You tell yourself that you're entitled to a little bit of _freaking_ irrational thought right now.

When you see headlights, you break your promise to Dean, and pray that it's Triple A.

It isn't Triple A, but instead it's a retired doctor and his wife, heading to his hunting cabin up in the mountains, hoping to avoid the fate of so many others. They get you into the back seat, and tell you to hang on, don't push.

You give birth to a ten pound baby boy in a dilapidated cabin in the middle of nowhere on September Twenty-Ninth at exactly three o'clock in the morning.

He's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen in your life, and you tell yourself that there isn't anything you wouldn't do for him.

"Have you picked a name?" Mrs. Gabriel asks you.

You couldn't decide all these months, poring over baby names endlessly.

As you look at him, you say the first thing that comes to your mind.

"Joshua."

________________________________________________________________________

You've been on the road almost three months; always moving, never stopping, except when Dean was too exhausted to drive any more. The baby nurses so often, that for you to take a shift seems pointless, you'll have to pull over in an hour anyway.

You've noticed a pattern to the cities that burn to the ground. It's following you. Worse, they say the people who burned to death have come back. Dean says he's not sure if they're zombies, or ghosts, but regardless, he's ready for either.

One night, you find a motel in California not far from the ocean, and stop for the night. It's dangerous, but only as dangerous as everywhere else is now; looters and gangs taking advantage of the chaos that used to be America.

Usually, you sleep in shifts, but it's been so long since either of you've had any sleep, that the three of you curl up together. You both watch Joshua drift off, belly full and sated, and whisper over his head about how fast he's growing.

Joshua never cries, never even whimpers. You tell yourself that he's just a good baby, they have those, right? He's smart too, always paying attention to what's going on around him. He's happy, and laughs a lot.

You're thinking about Joshua as you fall asleep, and when you wake up, remnants of a dream foggy in your brain, you realize that the room is on fire.

Dean's already shaking you, yelling at you to get up, "Move!!"

You grab Joshua, and follow Dean to the back of the motel room, while he opens the window for you to climb out.

The motel room door explodes, and a man with yellow eyes walks in.

Tall, impossibly tall, and he hates you. It's written all over his face, and you don't know why, or what you could have possibly have done to him to make him hate you this much.

"Did you think I wouldn't find you?" he asks, and Dean tries to push you through the window now, in a panic.

Joshua makes a small noise, not a cry, but it's not his usual laughing sound either.

"What's wrong Dean?" the man asks, and you start to remember now. "Leaving already?"

A dream. _This_ dream.

You shove Joshua into Dean's arms. "Take Joshua, and don't look back."

You ignore Dean's tugging, then yanking, on your arm. You ignore the sound of Joshua crying and you walk toward your destiny, because you can't change destiny. The yellow eyed monster of your dreams has finally found you, and you know what comes next.

You burn alive on the ceiling of a motel room, and the last thing you know is pain.

_"The Lord is with you Miriam. Do not be afraid."_

And you're not.

There are people waiting for you in the light, and though you've never seen them before, you feel like they're family. Free from your body, you have an epiphany and everything is so clear.

You tell yourself that it won't be long now, and your new family smiles at your newfound understanding. The ones just like you, who died by the same fire, hold your hand as you wait together.

Right after the Anti-Christ renounces his allegiance to Lucifer, which he'll do for the love of his brother, Joshua will bring everyone down from His Father's Kingdom.

Martyrs are the first to return.

________________________________________________________________________

Fin

Thoughts?


End file.
